


Maximilien Robespierre, Pigeon Murderer

by paint_me_a_revolution



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, maxime has no chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 08:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: Maxime didn't murder that pigeon, thank you very much. You're all just mean.





	Maximilien Robespierre, Pigeon Murderer

     “You know what they’re calling you,” Camille says over breakfast, mouth full of pastry. “Maximilien Robespierre, Pigeon Murderer.”

     Maxime glowers. “I didn’t _murder_ it _,”_ he snaps. “The pigeon was unharmed, thank you very much.”

     “Yeah, but the little ones don’t know that.” Ronan joins them, and Camille gives him a brief nod as he continues, “For all they know, you ripped its head off with your bare hands.”

     “No one’s actually saying that,” Maxime groans. He rips off the end of Camille’s croissant and stuffs it in his mouth. Around it, he says, “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

     Camille pulls his plate closer. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, thief.”

     Ronan grabs the croissant from Camille’s unguarded side. “They’re _totally_ saying it,” he says. “You’re just oblivious.”

     There’s a muffled bang as Maxime’s head hits the table. “There’s no way,” he argues, “that _anyone’s_ that stupid.”

     At lunch, Maxime slams his tray down so hard his milk overturns. “They’re fucking saying it,” he growls, throwing a few napkins on top of the puddle before it can drip onto his trousers. “Someone fucking told the kids I ripped a pigeon apart with my bare fucking hands!” He holds them out. “Do I _look_ like I could do that? Could these hands _physically_ pull that off?” 

     Ronan pretends to think about it. For a brief moment, Camille entertains the idea that Maxime might actually hit him; he’s looking dangerously close, at any rate. But then Ronan shakes his head and says “You couldn’t even lift the lid on a pizza box.”

     Maxime squawks. He opens his mouth, shuts it, and then opens it one more time to say, “I’m not a pigeon murderer.”

     Camille snorts hot coffee out of his nose. “You know that,” he coughs out, “and I know that, but I don’t think anyone else knows that.”

     Camille wakes up at four in the morning to the sound of someone pounding on his door. He rolls over, steeling himself for the inevitable shock of the cold floor on his feet, but Ronan beats him to the door. “Maxime!” he hears. “What are you doing here? It’s four in the morning, you jerk!”

     “Do you really think I killed the pigeon?”

     Oh, for Christ’s sake. Camille sits up in bed. “Go back to bed, Maxime,” he snaps. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

     “I…Lazare said I probably killed it,” Maxime stammers out. _Is he crying? Jesus._

     “You didn’t kill the fucking pigeon,” Ronan says, already starting to close the door. “But maybe next time you should think about that before you stuff something in a box.”

     “Wait!” Maxime cries out. The door slams shut.

     “He’s fucking crazy,” Ronan grumbles, shuffling across the room to crawl back in bed. He falls onto the bed with an exaggerated yawn.

     “I didn’t kill the pigeon,” Maxime announces the next morning. The dark circles under his eyes are deeper than they were yesterday, and he’s got his chin propped up on his hand like he can’t trust himself to keep his head up. “I did some research, and pigeons are apparently pretty hardy. It’ll be fine.”

     “Huh?” Ronan leans back in his seat. He’s got half a Danish stuffed in his cheeks, and the other half in his right hand. “You mean you stayed up all night for _that?”_

     “And woke us up, too,” Camille points out. “Was that really necessary?”

     From the depths of his schoolbag, Maxime extracts a folded up sheet of paper. “Of course it was,” he says, waving the paper excitedly. “I wrote up a pamphlet, see? I’m bringing it to the headmaster. Once everyone reads this, they’ll have to stop calling me Pigeon Murderer.”

     The headmaster sends out the pamphlet in an email with the title _Maximilien Robespierre, Pigeon Murderer._ Maxime screams himself hoarse while Camille laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Probably part of a larger series, based on my own experience at boarding school. I was NOT involved in pigeon kidnapping, thank you very much, but I did witness it.


End file.
